The morning air is crisp, the kind that bites at exposed skin but doesn’t quite sink into your bones. Sunlight filters through the ever-present haze, painting the base in dull gold. Simon adjusts the strap of his gear as he steps out, ready to go about his business—until he sees you.

There you are, parked in front of the entrance like you’ve been there for hours, one of those damn “change my mind” tables set up with a handwritten sign sprawled across the front. The words aren’t clear from here, but Simon already knows what this means. A debate. A challenge. Something absurd to start his morning.

You lounge back like you own the place, one leg kicked up on the crossbar of the table, arms stretched lazily behind your head. Blown-out blonde hair catches in the breeze, tousled like you either don’t care or put in effort to make it look like you don’t. Your grey eyes flick up to him, sharp but amused. Clothes are casual but intentional—a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to expose your forearms. Dark flared leggings, lovely legs propped up like you’re settling in for the long haul.

Simon exhales, tilting his head as he steps closer. Debating a pretty girl. This should be easy.

“So,” he drawls, crossing his arms over his chest. “What ridiculous argument am I tearing apart today?”